


Dust and Ashes

by SCFrankles



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: holmestice, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:09:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7257646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson investigate three cases which appear to have some similarities. Could there be something bigger going on in the background?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust and Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GuardianOfTheGates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianOfTheGates/gifts).



> Written for the Summer 2016 round of [Holmestice](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/) on LJ. My fic can be found in its first posted form [here](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/402296.html), and the master list of all the works can be found [here](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/412902.html). 
> 
> Thank you to [Small_Hobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit) for the greatly amusing beta, and to my sister for giving the fic its last look over before I handed it in. I used a Victorian name generator to assist me in naming a lot of my characters. I _think_ it was [this one](http://www.victorian-era.org/victorian-era-name-generator.html). (^^")
> 
> Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> * * *

The year following Holmes’s three year absence saw a gradual revival of his practice as word began to spread of his return, and I was fortunate to assist on several intriguing cases, including the one I am about to relate. It was a case with many curious aspects, the most curious of them being that it had initially appeared to be several individual cases, concerning individual clients.

The first of these clients arrived one rainy autumn morning while I was out buying tobacco. I had just got back to Baker Street and was attempting to shake the worst of the rainwater off my outer garments when Mrs. Hudson came into the hall.

“I see you have returned, Doctor,” she said. “Mr. Holmes has been waiting for you. He has a new client upstairs, sir—a Miss Prudence Dossett. She—”

Mrs. Hudson paused, and looked me up and down.

“Doctor,” she said, “you seem to be dripping all over my new hall carpet.”

I smiled at her. 

“I am indeed, Mrs. Hudson!”

And I thrust my damp coat and hat at our esteemed landlady so she could hang them up to dry, and hurried on upstairs.

 

 

I pushed open the door to our rooms and rushed in. Holmes and his client turned in unison at my entrance.

“Ah, Watson.” Holmes nodded at me. “Do come in and sit down. I have already explained to Miss Dossett that you usually assist me on my cases.”

The lady was in a chair opposite Holmes. A striking young woman, with an air of self-possession. As I took my seat, Holmes returned to considering Miss Dossett closely. 

“I see that you deal with children as an everyday occurrence, and have recently been having some financial difficulties.”

The lady appeared somewhat startled but quickly recovered.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Holmes—I am a governess. But how could you know—?”

My friend smiled. “When Dr. Watson dashed into the room, you gave him a most severe look, and you opened your mouth to rebuke him before recollecting yourself in some embarrassment. I believe a lady who disapproves of running in the sitting-room must have some regular dealings with small boys.”

Miss Dossett gave Holmes a small smile of acknowledgement. “And the financial difficulties?”

Holmes glanced at me. I took the cue.

“Your gloves, Miss Dossett,” I said. “They do not match your outfit. That _could_ be the result of distraction due to anxiety about the problem you have brought to Mr. Holmes. However, the rest of your outfit is carefully chosen, which suggests the gloves you would have preferred to have worn have suffered some damage or wear and tear, and you cannot afford to replace them.”

“Excellent, Watson,” said Holmes. He turned back to our client. “So, madam, how can we assist you?”

Miss Dossett looked from one of us to the other.

“As Mr. Holmes has deduced, I am a governess. But my last charges have now been sent to school and I have been having some trouble finding a new position.”

She inclined her head. 

“I must admit I’ve been struggling to pay my bills. My landlady in particular has become increasingly impatient.”

Holmes furrowed his forehead. “But why have you come to me?”

“Because,” said Miss Dossett, “yesterday, out of the blue, I received in the post several new offers of employment.”

“Several?” said Holmes. 

Miss Dossett nodded. “Twenty-seven in total.”

“Good heavens.” My eyebrows were raised high.

“Surely that in itself would not bring you to me?” said Holmes.

“No, indeed.” 

Miss Dossett produced several letters and passed them over to Holmes, who began looking through them.

“As you can see,” said Miss Dossett, gesturing at the letters, “all of the positions have some curious conditions attached: I must change the colour of my hair, I must only wear green, I must _never_ wear green, I must dress as a maid, I must dress as a gentleman, I must dress as Queen Victoria…”

“Yes…” Holmes looked up. “I have to say my immediate reaction is that these positions are perhaps just a trifle suspicious. I really wouldn’t recommend you taking any of them.”

“But I need the money!” cried Miss Dossett.

She threw up her hands.

“Mr. Holmes, I have made up my mind to take at least one of the positions but I would value your advice as to which.”

Holmes set the letters aside and sighed. He appeared to consider for a long moment, then he looked at the lady.

“Well, Miss Dossett. If you are truly set on doing this, we’ll see what we can do to help.”

 

 

And so it was I found myself a few weeks later in the position of assisting Holmes in getting Miss Dossett back to the safety of her lodgings. This was in the aftermath of an extraordinarily bizarre adventure concerning her employment. 

I must explain that this was not the first of the positions accepted or the first of the bizarre adventures. But it had seemed prudent on this occasion to see the lady straight to her door, as the climax of the case had involved her being drugged.

Miss Dossett did appear rather cheerful about the situation though. 

“Five down, twenty-two to go!” she carolled.

I adjusted my grip on her waist and whispered to Holmes.

“Are you sure it was a good idea—counselling her to make her way through the list of unsavoury positions and call you in for each crisis?”

Holmes gave a little shrug. “It seemed the best compromise with the lady’s desires.”

We had at this point reached the lodging house and Holmes rapped smartly on the front door.

After a pause the landlady answered, and there was an audible sigh of irritation as she took in the state of Miss Dossett.

“Well, you’d best bring her in.”

Holmes bowed, and we walked Miss Dossett over the threshold.

I attempted to discreetly address Holmes. “I do think we should tell her to abandon the notion of taking on any more of these terrible jobs.”

Unfortunately the landlady overheard and directed a most unsympathetic look at Miss Dossett. “She should just be glad of the money. Lots of folks in worse situations than her.”

We paused in the hallway. Miss Dossett was now attempting to kiss Holmes on the cheek, and I politely pretended not to pay attention while Holmes attempted in return to dissuade her. 

Letting go of the young lady, I looked away and idly cast my eye over the items covering the surface of the hall table. A small shepherdess ornament, an evening paper, a butcher’s bill. And a business card— _Miss Cattermole’s Introduction Agency for Tenants and Landladies._

This made me feel suddenly rather protective of our client. 

I looked directly at the landlady and gestured at the card. “Are you searching for another tenant?” 

Holmes glanced briefly at where I was pointing but quickly directed his attention back to his affectionate client and her now wandering hands.

The landlady’s expression was somewhat guarded. “I’m perfectly happy with Miss Dossett.”

Holmes began leading Miss Dossett up the stairs to her room and the landlady turned to follow them to act as chaperone—whether she was more worried about Miss Dossett’s or Holmes’s honour I am not quite certain.

But she cast one last look back at me.

“It’s hard to get a decent tenant nowadays, sir.” 

 

 

A month had passed, and I was taking my ease in our sitting-room at Baker Street, when Holmes returned from yet another of his rescue missions concerning Miss Dossett. I had felt a little guilty at leaving him to do the latest on his own but sometimes a chap just wants a quiet night in to wax his moustache and read something untaxing. 

I looked up from my novel as he entered. “Everything ended satisfactorily?”

“Oh, yes,” said Holmes. “Once we’d tunnelled out of the cellar and outrun the dogs, it was plain sailing after that.” 

I set my book aside. “So how many is that now?”

“Twelve,” said Holmes. 

He came and sat down opposite me. 

“But it appears that will be the last. Miss Dossett has decided to throw in the towel and get married. She says her nerves can’t take the strain.”

I nodded. “Perhaps it’s for the best. It was taking up a lot of your time.”

Downstairs there was a sudden knocking at the front door and I smiled at Holmes. 

“And it sounds as though you may have another client.” 

I looked at the clock. It was after eleven and so I made to go and answer the door myself. But Holmes motioned to me to remain where I was.

“I already woke Mrs. Hudson up to let me back in. I’m sure she won’t mind letting our client in too.”

Indeed it was not long before a bleary-eyed Mrs. Hudson brought a man in early middle-age up to join us.

“This is Mr. John Whittock,” she announced.

She looked at Holmes.

“Will that be all for tonight then, sir?”

“Pot of tea?” said Holmes brightly. 

Mrs. Hudson muttered something under her breath that I did not quite catch and disappeared back down to her kitchen. 

 

 

Mr. John Whittock had a most peculiar tale to tell.

“I have been living at 11, Winley Gardens in Brixton for some years now. I have a pleasant room there and I am greatly attached to it. The rent has been raised two or three times recently but I have always preferred to find the extra money rather than look for somewhere cheaper.” He fiddled with his hat. “I am an actor and so my income can be somewhat erratic. I have been a trifle late with the rent on occasion but I have always paid.”

Mr. Whittock hesitated.

“I have been away touring for some weeks, and tonight when I returned to my lodgings, I had the most bizarre homecoming. My landlady of many years professed not to know me! She rather disapproves of me, and at first I thought this might be some ridiculous joke but when I insisted on going up to my room at the very top of the house…”

He paused.

“Mr. Holmes—the room wasn’t there!”

Holmes leant forwards. “You interest me, Mr. Whittock. What exactly do you mean?”

“There was no doorway, Mr. Holmes. The wall was completely smooth.” He wiped his brow. “At that point I did indeed wonder if perhaps I had made a foolish mistake and got the wrong house. However, when I went outside everything was as I remembered it.”

Mr. Whittock trembled. 

“I believe I shall go mad, Mr. Holmes! My room has disappeared and all my belongings with it!” 

Holmes smiled, and soothingly patted our client’s arm. “Have no fear, Mr. Whittock. I am sure we will be able to find the solution to this mystery.”

 

 

We took a four wheeler together back to Winley Gardens.

Once there, Holmes knocked at the door and a harassed-looking woman answered it.

She took in the sight of the three of us, and glared at Mr. Whittock.

“Not you again. I’ve told you that I don’t know you!”

“But Mrs. Jarvis—”

“My name is Mrs. Castleton!” The poor woman seemed completely frustrated.

Holmes took the opportunity to employ his usual soothing tones.

“If you could perhaps allow myself and my colleague to examine upstairs. Then our friend here will be finally convinced and you will be left in peace.”

Mrs. Castleton did seem to calm somewhat at Holmes’s suggestion. 

“Well, if it will mean an end to all this disturbance…” She threw up her hands. “Come with me, then!”

The three of us followed Mrs. Castleton into the house, and she began to lead us up the stairs, complaining as she went.

“I am a respectable woman running a respectable household, and suddenly I have strange men turning up at all hours, telling me they live here when they don’t…”

We reached the landing.

“There!”

Mrs. Castleton pointed at what was indeed a smooth section of wall, papered, and with no sign of there ever having been a doorway there.

She smiled rather smugly. 

“Look as much as you want!”

Holmes took her at her word and stepped forward to examine the relevant wall from end to end. He looked a little closer at one particular section and then rummaged in his pocket.

He frowned. 

“I appear to have mislaid my lens somewhere…”

He gazed down at the floor around his feet and turned to look behind him. He shook his head. 

“Perhaps I dropped it on the pavement when we alighted from the cab.”

He raised his eyebrows at Mrs. Castleton. 

“I will just go and see, and then I can conclude my examination.”

He bowed and made his way back down the stairs.

I smiled politely at Mrs. Castleton, who watched Holmes go with a somewhat doubtful expression. 

“I’m sure my colleague won’t be long, madam.”

However in fact, several discomforting minutes went past without Holmes returning. I exchanged a glance with Mr. Whittock and I could see he was feeling equally awkward. 

Perhaps understandably, Mrs. Castleton finally lost patience. 

“That is enough! I would like you to leave—”

There was a sudden thud behind the wall and we all froze. Invisible footsteps moved swiftly towards us and then here was the sound of violent kicking.

Abruptly a section of the wall came away! 

Or rather, a piece of lightweight board came away—a board that had been covering a doorway. And there revealed, stood a beaming Holmes.

He smiled merrily at the shocked Mrs. Castleton. 

“When next boarding up a room, dear lady, it might be wise to disguise its window as well.”

He turned to Mr. Whittock. 

“You will now be able to recover your belongings, sir. Though I would suggest looking for other lodgings. Mrs. Jarvis has made it fairly clear that you are not welcome here.”

Mr. Whittock was staring at his landlady, his mouth hanging open.

Mrs. Jarvis scowled back at him. 

 

 

We left Mr. Whittock to sort out his domestic situation and made our way back to Baker Street. 

In the cab Holmes laughed heartily.

“Mrs. Jarvis may disapprove of our actor friend but perhaps she herself should have gone into the profession.”

“I must admit I was entirely fooled by her sincerity,” I said. “I was beginning to believe that Mr. Whittock was indeed mistaken.”

“It was a masterly performance.” Holmes smiled. “But Watson, imagine it. A madman arrives at Baker Street insisting he lives there and wanting to see upstairs. He then comes back with two associates who also want to see upstairs. Do you believe Mrs. Hudson would just have demurely stepped aside and allowed them up? No! She would have sent them all away with a flea in their ear.”

Holmes slapped his knee. 

“It was perfectly obvious to me that the landlady _wanted_ us all to see the evidence—to see that the room did not exist.”

He grinned. 

“But allowing me to examine the evidence only made it even more clear that the room must be there. There was some very minor sun damage on the landing wallpaper—damage that abruptly stopped when a certain section of the wall was reached. Clearly that section of wall had been papered after the rest, and relatively recently. And then to confirm my findings I made my excuses and disappeared outside to look for the window at the back of the house. Where I happened to find a very useful tree, and impulsively decided to make a grand re-entrance. Well, you know me, Watson—I can never resist a touch of the dramatic.”

“Good heavens!” I said. “And all this subterfuge was simply to evict poor Mr. Whittock.”

Holmes inclined his head. “It does seem rather an extreme way to get rid of Mr. Whittock but he appeared tenaciously attached to his lodgings.”

He produced a grubby and dogeared piece of card.

“I found this dropped in the backyard. From the worn state of it, it seems apparent that Mrs. Jarvis had been considering a new tenant for quite some time.”

I stared at the card. “What a coincidence…”

“Hmm?” said Holmes.

I gestured at the card. _“Miss Cattermole’s Introduction Agency._ That’s the same card Miss Dossett’s landlady had.”

“Is it now?” Holmes looked thoughtful.

“Is it significant?” I asked.

Holmes shrugged and tucked the card away again. “Probably not.”

And our conversation turned to other things. 

 

 

It was Inspector Lestrade who brought us news of the third case a few days later.

He shook his head. “Gruesome business. A man found strangled and stowed in his own wardrobe.”

I flinched but Holmes was clearly intrigued. “Do tell me more, Inspector.”

Lestrade got out his notebook.

“Mr. Eliezer Inch was found by the maid,” he said. “It seems the landlady had gone up mid-morning after Mr. Inch didn’t ring for breakfast—she was concerned that he might have fallen ill. But his rooms were apparently empty and she believed he must have left during the night.”

Lestrade turned over a page.

“The maid returned to the house at midday—she’d been away looking after a sick relative. She went up to clean Mr. Inch’s rooms and eventually discovered his body in the bedroom wardrobe.”

Holmes rubbed his hands in some satisfaction. “Any sign of someone breaking in?”

“The front door was unlocked and Mr. Inch’s key had actually been left in the lock. The landlady had assumed at first that Mr. Inch had absentmindedly forgotten to secure the door. But now we are working on the assumption that Mr. Inch admitted his murderer during the night.”

“It is certainly a possible theory.” Holmes nodded at Lestrade. “We shall see.”

 

 

We accompanied Lestrade by cab back to a small, respectable house in Croydon. There was a policeman on duty and we were admitted by a young maid, who was very pale but composed. In one of the ground floor rooms we could see a weeping middle-aged woman.

“Mrs. Tichborne—the landlady,” explained Lestrade discreetly. 

He indicated the stairs and we ascended together. On the landing a door to a room stood open and Lestrade and Holmes entered. I remained in the doorway, watching.

Holmes was looking about in some surprise. The bedroom did look remarkably spic and span for somewhere that a murder had taken place. 

He turned to Lestrade. “Have you or your men changed anything?”

Lestrade shook his head resolutely. “As little as possible has been touched. Even the body is still in place.” 

Holmes approached the open door of the wardrobe and crouched down to examine the unfortunate victim. He was dressed in his nightgown and had been placed in a seated position, his knees drawn up to his chin. His head had fallen forwards and his hands lay flat on the wardrobe’s floor.

Holmes examined the injuries to the poor man’s throat and called me in to confirm his thoughts. It was clear that the victim had met his end by strangulation using some kind of ligature. 

In sombre fashion we all went downstairs again, where Holmes asked to speak to the maid. 

The girl was still pale but seemed in control of her emotions. 

Holmes addressed her. “What was the usual state of Mr. Inch’s rooms?”

She hesitated. “Well, the gentleman could be a little untidy.”

I leant over to speak quietly to Holmes.

“But surely the current state of the room is down to the murderer tidying up afterwards—to remove any trace of himself.”

“I don’t doubt that is partially true,” replied Holmes. “But why so thoroughly? Even the books were listed alphabetically by author. The bed had been perfectly remade, the clothes in the wardrobe were folded and neatly in place beside the body. Even the body itself could be said to have been tidily arranged as far as is possible.”

Holmes gave a kind smile to the girl and we went to speak to her mistress. 

The landlady had stopped weeping for the moment but still seemed distressed. 

Holmes looked at her solemnly. “You keep a very neat house, Mrs. Tichborne.” 

“I try to, sir,” she said, quivering a little.

“Mr. Inch must have been somewhat of a trial to you,” continued Holmes. 

“He was! But he won’t be any more!” And she burst into tears once again. She rummaged in her pocket for a handkerchief and a card fluttered down to the ground.

Holmes picked it up, raised an eyebrow and briefly showed the card to me. 

It was, as before, for Miss Cattermole’s agency.

Holmes turned back to the landlady. “I see you are already looking for another tenant, madam.”

Mrs. Tichborne appeared somewhat confused. “No, that was from before— I mean…” 

She came to a halt and Holmes looked at her curiously. 

He handed her back the card. “Well, we shall not take up any more of your time. Thank you.”

Holmes beckoned to Lestrade, and the three of us left the house.

On the pathway outside, Holmes stopped and addressed Lestrade. 

“Arrest Mrs. Tichborne.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened. “She was the one who murdered her tenant?”

“Oh, indubitably. There are no signs of breaking and entering, and the maid was temporarily absent from the house. Mrs. Tichborne attacked her tenant when he was asleep, which gave her an advantage despite her smaller build.”

Holmes smiled grimly.

“But the clinching argument is the state of the bedroom. When trying to remove any signs that she had been there for the murder, she just couldn’t help herself. She tidied the entire room to her own satisfaction—even putting the body away in the wardrobe.”

 

 

Back in our rooms I put one last question to Holmes.

“But why did she kill him?” I asked. “Simply because of his untidiness?”

“— _etched_ man…”

I glanced over at where Mrs. Hudson was muttering away to herself, as she traversed Holmes’s piles of papers with a loaded teatray. 

“Are you all right there, dear lady?” I asked.

I turned my attention back to Holmes. 

He was shrugging. 

“Untidiness does seem a trivial matter for murder to the logical mind. But who knows what goes on in the feminine psyche!”

There was a loud bang as Mrs. Hudson thumped the tray down onto the table. 

I jumped somewhat, but Holmes seemed unconcerned.

“Will that be all?” said Mrs. Hudson.

Holmes casually waved her away, and Mrs. Hudson made her way out of the room—treading rather violently and noisily, I thought.

I returned my attention to Holmes, who was musing out loud.

“Three clients, three landladies, three business cards for the same agency…”

I looked at him. “Does that connection matter now that all the mysteries have been solved?” 

“It is an interesting coincidence though, you must admit, Watson.” Holmes looked thoughtful. “A young woman has trouble paying her rent and suddenly is besieged by possible positions; a tenant that won’t be shifted finds his room has disappeared; a habitually untidy tenant is murdered and tidied away.”

I furrowed my brow. “You really believe something more sinister is behind these cases?”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I think it might be worth us paying this agency a visit.”

 

 

It was a small office in Clapham, up a long, long flight of stairs. 

Holmes examined the sign on the door. “This shows little signs of wear but the agency has certainly has been established for some months.” 

We entered together. The room was plainly but elegantly set out, and the only inhabitant was a neat and well-dressed lady seated behind a desk. 

“Miss Cattermole?” asked Holmes. 

The lady looked up at us. “Yes? May I help you, gentlemen?”

Holmes smiled politely. 

“I am Robert Hewlett,” he said. He indicated me. “And this is Mr. Catherick. We are both hoping to find new lodgings in the vicinity. And your agency comes highly recommended, madam.”

“Good heavens—how wonderful.” 

With a smile, Miss Cattermole pulled out a drawer. She reached inside, and produced two forms.

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind filling these out, then I will see if I have anything suitable for you.”

We sat down on the opposite side of the desk, took a form each and following Holmes’s lead, I entered fake information about my full name, current address, profession and income.

Miss Cattermole took the completed forms and studied them. A little frown formed on her immaculate forehead. “Oh, dear. I think you may both have made a mistake.”

Holmes gave the appearance of concern. “Have we?” 

“Yes.” 

She smiled sweetly. 

“Aren’t your names in fact Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?”

She pulled a gun from the still open drawer and stood up, Holmes and I rising automatically with her.

Miss Cattermole sighed. 

“I have been expecting a visit from you both. I must admit I was somewhat surprised I took so long to attract your attention.” 

Even faced with a gun, Holmes managed to raise an amused eyebrow. “Well, we hadn’t really had need of your agency—we are quite content with our current abode.”

“Ah, the household of the estimable Mrs. Hudson.” Miss Cattermole lifted the gun higher and held it steady. “I had hoped that she might respond to my discreetly worded proposal, and use my agency to get rid of you both. Then you would have been out of my way months ago, and she would have taken all of the blame.” 

Miss Cattermole gave us a cruel smile.

“Though this way is more satisfying I suppose.”

I stared at Miss Cattermole. Just for the moment my impending death was not uppermost in my mind. 

“You tried to tempt Mrs. Hudson into having us murdered? As if the dear woman would ever have had anything to do with that!”

“No...” said Miss Cattermole. “That did come to nothing.” 

She grinned. 

“But luckily there are plenty of other annoyed landladies to keep me in business.”

She came out from behind the desk, the gun remaining steady all the while.

“I used to be a landlady myself. Working day and night for the benefit of ill-mannered and thoughtless tenants—and never making much money out of it.”

She began to approach Holmes.

“But one of my tenants was different from the others. Courteous. Intelligent. And he suggested a new way of life to me.” She gestured widely. “This agency.” 

“And so you found new jobs for Miss Dossett,” said Holmes, “not caring about her safety. And dealt with Mr. Whittock by removing his room.”

“And dealt with Mr. Inch by telling his landlady how to murder him!” I exclaimed.

She gave me a wicked smile. “At least it allowed her to finally tidy his room.”

“You fiend, Miss Cattermole!” I cried.

“I shall take that as a compliment, Doctor.” 

She pointed the gun directly at Holmes’s head. 

My friend remained admirably calm. “But who was this tenant?” 

Miss Cattermole laughed. “Can’t you guess? You were extremely concerned about his operations once upon a time.”

“Moriarty,” said Holmes grimly. 

“Yes, of course.” 

Miss Cattermole took a step closer to Holmes.

“Well, now. You may have vanquished the Napoleon of crime, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps an Empress can replace him. Face your doom!” 

That slight moment of attention directed elsewhere was all I needed.

“Not tonight, Josephine!”

I would never have gone into a suspicious situation like this unarmed. I drew out my own gun and shot hers out of her hand. 

 

 

We handed Miss Cattermole in to the authorities and returned to Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson admitted us.

Holmes smiled at her. “Perhaps some sandwiches and a pot of tea?”

“Already waiting for you upstairs, sir.” 

Mrs. Hudson gave us a nod and disappeared towards the kitchen and we made our way up to our sitting-room, where we settled ourselves into our chairs each with a cup of tea.

“So! A most satisfactory ending,” beamed Holmes. 

“But who knows how many tenants have suffered by proxy at Miss Cattermole’s hands?” I shivered a little. “How lucky we are to have Mrs. Hudson as our landlady. I cannot imagine her ever wishing to harm us, thank goodness.”

I raised my cup to take a comforting sip of its steaming contents. 

And suddenly something struck me. 

I lowered the cup again.

“Though...” I looked at Holmes. “Mrs. Hudson never actually _told_ us she’d been approached by someone about having us ‘removed’...”

Holmes paused in the act of lifting his cup to his lips. “No. That’s right.”

“You don’t think…” I hesitated. “...she was perhaps _considering_ it?”

Holmes’s teacup remained suspended in space for a long moment. Then he replaced it on its saucer. 

“No! No, of course she wasn’t. She… probably simply hadn’t taken the suggestion seriously. Or the offer had gone over her good-natured head!”

He hesitated and considered his teacup warily, and then looked over at me. 

“Though perhaps… It might be best if we increased our rent payments somewhat, do you think?”

I put my own cup down, and nodded vigorously. 

“A very sound deduction, Holmes,” I said.


End file.
